


Birds on a Wire

by killabeez



Series: Birds on a Wire [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Related, Episode: s02e10 Hunted, First Time, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-21
Updated: 2007-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between "Hunted" and "Playthings." Dean's not sure when, exactly, everything started to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds on a Wire

**Author's Note:**

> You know how some stories, they just flow out of you, and they end up being the best things you write? This is so not that story. It was originally supposed to be finished in time for mona1347's birthday -- which is in January. She's still the coolest, even if I am lame.
> 
> Much, much love to destina for the excellent beta when she so has better things to do, and also because she is shiny, and offers kindness and support with such amazing generosity. (You know I wouldn't ever finish these stupid things if it wasn't for you, right?)
> 
> me: Self, you're posting Wincest again. Tell me this doesn't freak you out.  
> the little voice inside my head: This doesn't freak me out.  
> me: Weak, man. Seriously.

Halfway between Peoria and the next town over, the smell of blood's still bright and metallic at the back of Dean's tongue. He glances over and sees Sam's got his phone out. His brother's face is drawn into a pinched expression Dean knows all too well.

"Who you calling?'

"Andy Gallagher," Sam says, tense as it rings on the other end. "Come on, pick up." And then a second later, "Andy? It's Sam Winchester." Dean breathes easier when Sam does, and kicks himself that he's practically forgotten Andy's existence.

Sam shifts into his _you can trust me_ voice without effort, and Dean listens to a one-sided conversation between his brother and the one guy they know who shares this psychic thing of Sam's—the one, at least, who's managed to stay alive, sane, and reassuringly not-evil. From the sound of things, all three are still more or less true.

"Hey, Andy, listen," Sam says after a minute, shifting the phone to his good hand. "I think you should get out of town for a while. Don't tell anyone where you're going, all right? Just lay low for a while. And keep in touch." He glances up, meeting Dean's eyes. "We will. You, too."

Sam ends the call and goes back to staring out the window, hand curled around his phone, the back of it pressed to his mouth.

"We'll find her, man," Dean says at last.

It's not much, but a little of the tension goes out of Sam's stiff shoulders. And it's kind of ridiculous how far that goes toward settling Dean's nerves, but after the day they've had, he figures he's earned it.

* * *

The first couple days after they find the body, they keep moving. Sam's not exactly at the top of his game. He doesn't fight it as hard as he normally would when Dean insists they keep a low profile until the dust settles, and Dean's far enough off his own game that he doesn't look too closely at the reason. All he really cares about is that Sam's still in one piece, and if that makes him a selfish son of a bitch, so be it.

Once things quiet down with the cops, they hole up in an efficiency east of the city, working the hunt for Ava Wilson like it's any other hunt. Dean's resigned to it; Sam isn't about to give up on the girl as long as they've got even the slightest hint of a lead, and Dean knows he might as well make the best of it. Truth be told, he feels like he owes this Ava girl. If it wasn't for her, Sam might be two weeks in the grave, and Dean gives that some weight—enough to let Sam play this out. It's not like he's got someplace else pressing to be, and if Sam's not exactly Mr. Sunshine, at least he's not showing any signs of taking off again, either. Dean figures he can live with that.

Right up until the day the whole thing starts to go south.

* * *

One of the many riveting factoids Dean never knew about the great state of Illinois is that every winter, massive flocks of starlings pass through it, heading south along the river.

For some reason nobody can quite explain, this year the things have decided to take up roost all over the damn place, leaving evidence of their invasion on pretty much every car and tree and field and flat surface within a twenty mile radius; it's a plague of starlings, and the way things have been going, Dean's willing to suspect something more Biblical than global warming. It might even be personal, he thinks, the third time they victimize his car and he has to spend two hours in a self-serve car wash. He hates the freaking things with a murderous passion. And that's before a mass contingent of rats-on-wings decide the local power station looks like a good place to hang out for the night and take out half the power grid, including most of East Peoria.

It's a Friday night, and Dean's midway into his second nine ball game of the evening when the jukebox cuts out with a pop in the middle of "Rock of Ages," and the place plunges into darkness. Dean's shifted his grip on the pool cue and put his back to a wall before he even thinks about it, but other than the collective groan of irritation from the bar's patrons, nothing happens.

It's hours before he finds out the reason for the blackout, but Dean's pretty sure, even before he knows what caused it, that it's something totally mundane. It's Peoria—the freaking capital of mundane. He's kind of pissed, because he knows the guy in the Bears jersey was good for at least a couple hundred, but it shouldn't be a big deal to find another joint to play in.

The lights don't come back on. A quick check outside, and it becomes obvious this isn't an isolated thing; Dean can't see any lights for at least half a mile in any direction.

Still, it's nothing to freak out over. They're not desperate for cash yet—he went out tonight more for mental health reasons than anything else. There's no real reason for the slow, uneasy sinking feeling that settles in his stomach. No reason at all for his hand to be twitching toward his phone. He tells himself that the whole time he's crossing the parking lot, tells himself it's just the randomness of the universe getting its jollies at his expense as his car turns over with her usual reassuring growl.

The thing is, they've had a few too many close calls, lately, and after that spook-ass town in Oregon, it's hard not to be creeped out by streets that are too empty, too quiet, by shadows between buildings and parked cars playing tricks on you. Pretty sure isn't quite the same thing as _sure,_ and two minutes of cruising the dark streets and telling himself power outages are normal, it's nothing to do with him and Sam, are enough to convince him that if he doesn't call and check, he's never going to be able to concentrate on hustling pool or anything else.

"You're gettin' pathetic, is what," he mutters under his breath as he digs out his phone and quick-dials Sam in the dark.

Sam, of course, huge pain in Dean's ass that he is, has turned his frigging phone off. And now the short hairs on the back of Dean's neck are prickling, and he huffs out an impatient breath and steps on the brakes, wheeling the car around.

* * *

The lights are still on back at the motel. Some escapes past the edge of the curtain as Dean crosses the parking lot toward their room, and the uneasy, cold knot in his stomach doesn't exactly go away, but it's quickly receding in favor of a hot flush of irritation, though whether it's directed more at Sam or at himself, Dean's not sure.

No, check that. If Sam's inside, if nothing bad's happened to him and he decided to turn his phone off out of pure, pig-headed stupidity after everything that's happened, then Dean is most definitely gonna kick his ass.

That thought is foremost in Dean's mind as he closes the last few steps to the door. He jams the key into the lock and shoulders the door open, caught halfway between gut-clenching dread and a deep fury that feels like it's been a long time coming. It pushes him through the door with one hand at his back, the grip of his pistol warm from the heat of his body.

Then his eyes fall on Sam sitting right where Dean left him, and for a long, breathless span of measureless time, all thought leaves him.

It could've gone a lot of ways, this little scene. God knows Dean lives to give Sam a hard time, and just because Sam wised up and stopped responding to certain kinds of teasing by the time he was sixteen, that doesn't mean Dean's above belaboring the topic. Big brother's prerogative, to tease his little brother about any and all subjects related to sex, particularly those that involve embarrassment of any kind. And Dean's pretty sure, as his brain skips several tracks and registers what he's seeing—everything he's seeing—that he'll be getting mileage out of this one for years.

He's thrown so badly off stride from where his head's been at the last few minutes, though, that it takes him a lot longer to process things than it should—and if he's thrown, then it's a hundred times worse for Sam, whose guilty jump and the mortified heat that rushes up his neck and spreads over his face confirm, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there's no pretending he was doing anything but what it looks like.

It's only a second or two. Dean's pretty sure of that much; it can't be more than that long that he stands in the doorway getting an eyeful, registering Sam's hectic color, the bitten flush of his lips and the way his breath comes too fast, the open buttons of his shirt betraying nipples drawn tight and the instinctive way Sam's guarding himself from view. It does nothing to make him look any less pornographic, any less like he's just been caught deep into the act of jerking himself off. His hand can't conceal how hard he is; there's a smear of fluid glistening on his belly, and despite himself Dean feels the low, blunt impact of that awareness in places he doesn't want to think about. He jerks his eyes up with an effort that feels like it tears something out of him.

Talk about awkward—this takes the prize. Dean's mouth is inexplicably dry, and he can't quite find words. _Christ, fucking hell, Sam,_ is about as far as he can get.

It's Sam who finally breaks the silence before it can get worse than it already is. His expression is pained, a study in misery and frustration.

"You planning on standing there all day, or you think you could shut the door?"

* * *

Dean's only human. He never claimed to be a saint, and his big brother status confers with it certain solemn duties—one of which is most definitely to use his time judiciously while Sam's in the bathroom, and check out Sam's recent history on the laptop. He considers it research, and if checking out Sam's taste in porn provides a welcome distraction from thinking too closely about what Sam's doing in there, so much the better.

The girl on the screen isn't quite what he expects. She's nothing like Jessica Moore, for one thing—but then, who is? She doesn't bear much resemblance to Sarah, either. She's hot, though, in a sort of quirky, pixieish way: short black hair, kind of goth, really nice tits. Shaved little pussy, peeking out pink from between her fingers. Sweet, Dean thinks, appreciative. He checks out the whole package, the way she looks at the camera, and he gets it. Yeah, he can see why Sam picked this one. It's the direct, almost challenging way she looks at you. Something about it—that and the hint of shyness in the way she's got her hand like that. He can definitely see how that would be Sam's thing.

Dean chuckles, feeling himself responding to that line of thought with a certain heat. It's been too long for him, too, and suddenly he's a lot more interested in finding something else to do tonight besides hustle pool. He clicks some of the other links, sees more girls from the same website, more short, goth haircuts, pussies shaved smooth and delicate, but with that underlying toughness in their piercings and black eyeliner. He doesn't look at any of them too long, distracted by listening for sounds from the bathroom. Sam's only been in there a minute, and he hears the water running, hears splashing.

A second later the door opens, and Sam comes out looking marginally more together, jeans and shirt buttoned. The ends of his hair are damp, like he splashed water on his face and neck and ran his hands through it. He hasn't been in there long enough for anything else.

Dean straightens up and pushes the computer away, aiming a half-smirk, half-leer Sam's direction on his way to the fridge. "Not bad, Sammy. A little Winona Ryder for me, but to each his own, I guess."

Sam pulls a face and flops down in the old, scarred armchair. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"You kiddin' me? Not a chance, little brother. Not a freakin' chance." Dean grins, wider than is probably fair. "You want a beer? Bet you could use something cold right about now."

Sam shoots him daggers, and a bitchface of epic sincerity. "You know I hate you, right?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I know you do." He tosses the beer with perfect aim, and Sam catches it out of the air. He pops the top and lets the can rest between his thighs; Dean cracks his and sits down on the edge of the bed, knocking back a good swig. Sam's not the only one who could use it. The pictures are still up on the laptop; the air in the room still feels charged with sex, and Dean's not immune to it. He wipes the foam off his lips with the back of his hand. "But hey, if you'd answer your damned phone when I call you, you wouldn't have to worry about uncomfortable situations like this, now would you?"

At that, Sam groans and leans back, closing his eyes. "Oh, crap."

"Just a suggestion."

Sam rocks his head against the chair, once back and forth, throat exposed. "All right, I'm sorry, I'll never do it again. Do you have to be a jerk about it?"

There are a lot of things Dean could say to that, but most of them go places he doesn't really want to go. "Don't you want to know why I came back early?" he says instead.

"Not especially."

"Huge blackout, looked like it took out half the city."

That gets Sam's attention. He cracks one eye, frowning. "Yeah?"

"Yep. Cost me fifty bucks, too. Had a clean run to the seven and coulda safed the hell out of him on the eight ball, woulda been sweet."

"You're breaking my heart, you know that?"

"Yeah, well." Dean's eyes slide over Sam of their own accord. Not that it isn't fun, torturing him, but he does feel for the guy. "Why don't you come out with me? Take a break for a while, we'll have some fun, for once. There's worse things." The idea of finding a couple of girls, bringing them back here, flits through his mind, revving him harder than it probably should.

"I thought you said there was a blackout?"

Dean shrugs. "We'll find someplace. How long's it been since we took a night off?"

Sam, predictably, dodges the question. "You don't think it's a little weird? I mean, half the city out?"

"Not really. When a spirit or a demon disrupts an electrical field, it's usually a lot more localized. A tornado or a freak storm or something, I might worry about it, but I didn't so much as see a raindrop on the way over here."

Sam gives a soft grunt of agreement. But two and two are adding up behind his eyes, and Dean remembers belatedly that he never can put much over on Sam lately. "That why you came tearing back here?" Sam says with a knowing look. "Because you weren't worried about me at all?"

"Whatever," Dean says, getting up. He finishes the beer in two long swallows, tosses the can in the tiny motel trash can. "So, you comin' or what?"

He doesn't expect Sam to say yes. But Sam takes a swig of his beer, gets up, and grabs his jacket.

* * *

Some things don't change: they hit three bars in as many hours. In the last one, Dean relieves a guy of a hundred and fifty bucks on a long, straight shot on the eight. Sam seems content to drink beer and watch; Dean sees a couple of girls giving his baby bro the eye, but he should've known better than to think Sam would hook up with anybody. It's like the guy's a monk, or something—sometimes Dean wonders if they're even related.

Sam might be going for some kind of record, but Dean sure as hell isn't. It's been months, and when he zeroes in on a cute little number near the bar, he wonders for about two seconds whether maybe he's lost his mojo. Turns out it's just like riding a bike.

She's got chestnut brown hair, a white halter top, and wears some kind of pink lip gloss that tastes like candy. He's not real clear on what she said her name was, but she makes out with him in a booth and seems into it. He feels like he might break her, she's so small next to him—but whatever. He's good to go, and she seems like she is, too. When he asks her what she's doing for the rest of the night, she shrugs a bare, honey-colored shoulder, and smiles. It's all good up until the moment he looks for Sam.

_I'll see you back at the motel_ Sam will say. He won't mind being ditched. He'll be good with it; he's used to it. Dean scans the room, finding Sam easily where he's leaning over the table, lining up a rail shot Dean taught him how to make when he was seven.

Dean doesn't really know what to call the feeling that runs through him. It's kind of a kick to the heart, only not bad, exactly; his throat feels tight, and he watches Sam for long seconds, a heaviness sinking through him. Dean tastes cherry candy and feels the girl's small, warm hand on his thigh, and all he can think about is Sam getting himself off alone in that motel room. It hits him hard how lonely his brother is, how self-contained and closed off he's been since they found that Ava girl's fiancé. He remembers Sam saying, _I'm not all right, not at all,_ and he hurts with it like he couldn't back then, when getting up in the morning took every bit of strength he had.

"Hey, you okay?"

Dean swallows against the sudden pressure of too much feeling. "Yeah." His voice sounds kind of funny; he drags his eyes back to her with effort. "Yeah... listen."

He gets her number.

Sam's sinking the eight ball when Dean comes over. His height and reach are such an unfair advantage, Dean almost feels sorry for the guy he's playing, even though there's no money on the table.

Sam doesn't really smile when he sees Dean, but his eyes and something about the set of his expression say they're okay, they're good. "You taking off?"

Dean shrugs. "Nah, man. Kinda beat, to tell you the truth. Think I might call it a night."

Sam's eyes narrow for a second, a little quirk of his eyebrows like he's wondering what kind of aliens took his brother. "Yeah, me too," he says finally, and Dean thinks maybe he sees relief in Sam's eyes before he shutters it carefully away. Sam's been doing that a lot, lately, Dean realizes—keeping this careful watch on what he says, what his face shows.

It's not a good thought. Dean pushes it aside, unwilling to look at it too closely. He's still hung up on that stunt Sam pulled a few weeks ago, taking off on him like he did, and he doesn't want to think about the chances of it happening again.

When they get back to the motel, the pictures of the girls are still up on the laptop.

"Want me to wait outside?" he says, because it's an unwritten rule that he has to give Sam a hard time on general principles. His eyes slide down meaningfully to the hand that isn't in a cast. "Give you two some quality time?"

Sam gives him a look and flops down on the far bed, snaking the remote. "Good one, Dean. You know, if you ever decide to give up demon hunting, I bet you get work as a comedian."

If that's not a challenge, Dean's never heard one; he plants himself in front of the computer and starts typing. The internet, with its limitless supply of amateur porn, is all too happy to fulfill his request. "How about this one, Sammy? She looks like she could be your type. And friendly, if you know what I mean." He tilts his head, squinting. "That can't be natural."

"You're not annoying," Sam says, and proceeds to torture Dean with VH1. Worse, it's some godawful thing with amateur white rappers talking in OG-pimpspeak, of all things, and who watches that shit?

Dean shoots a look of loathing at the TV, momentarily distracted. "Dude, that is so wrong."

Sam turns the sound up. "Shut up, I'm watching this."

"Did I ever mention you were dropped on your head when you were a baby?"

"And whose fault is that?"

Dean mentally concedes him the point. "Tell you what, you turn that shit off, and I promise I won't give you a hard time about your little porn habit."

"Liar."

Dean laughs in spite of himself, and it feels so good, feels so almost-normal, that some tension inside him lets go for the first time since Gordon Walker tied him to a chair and tried to convince him Sam had to die.

He relents—gets up and cuffs Sam across the top of the head on the way to the bathroom. "I'm touched, Sammy. It's almost like you know me."

He's in the shower, washing off the reek of cigarettes, when he catches himself trying to listen over the sound of the water. A year and a half, he's thinking. Man's gotta be in serious dire straits after all that time. Then this Ava girl comes along and fucks him up again, and how long's it gonna be now before Sam lets himself even look at another woman?

The worst part, he thinks, is that maybe it's contagious or something. Maybe that would explain why he's alone tonight with only his own hand for company, thinking way too much about Sam and whether or not he's doing the same thing out there that Dean's about to do in here.

The water turns icy without warning. Dean jumps, a sound halfway between a hiss and a yelp escaping him. He tries to tough it out, but after twenty seconds or so it becomes obvious that the cantankerous plumbing's going to win this one. Scrubbing shampoo out of his hair and swearing under his breath, he concedes the field.

Mercifully, Sam's out cold when he emerges, the TV the only light in the room; Dean gets himself off quietly to the low murmur of Jack Bauer making the world safe for truth, justice, and apple pie, and is dead to the world inside ten minutes, all thought and any number of sins wiped clean by sleep.

* * *

Two days pass. They keep checking every lead within a two hundred mile radius, every news byte that sounds even slightly news of the weird; they make a run up to Madison to check out an apartment fire with two near-fatalities, but nothing pans out—just your run of the mill human stupidity, totally random, not a whiff of demon involvement. Even Sam's starting to admit they're shooting in the dark.

The thing is, Dean can't quite seem to keep his head in the game. He feels antsy in his skin; he's had sex on the brain for two days after hardly thinking about it at all for way too long. He keeps thinking about Sam and his little porn habit, watching him out of the corner of his eye and wondering when he jerks off, and how often—wondering what it would take to get him to let go, for once, and go for it with a real, live girl. What's really killing him is, he keeps flashing on Sam's flushed, guilty desperation when Dean came through that door, and he can't get the full on Technicolor picture out of his head.

Dean doesn't have much in the way of finer sensibilities, but he's pretty sure there's something wrong with him; he might be twisted, but this is kind of extreme. He's convinced Sam's giving off pheromones or something. They've definitely been spinning their wheels too long.

They stop at a diner on the way back. Sam looks up from playing with his omelet, searching Dean's eyes with that curious, kid-with-a-bug expression. "What's with you, anyway? You feeling all right?"

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"You've barely said two words today."

Dean shrugs, and stuffs the last two bites of toast and jelly into his mouth, washes it down with coffee. "Don't feel like talking, I guess."

Sam laughs a little at that and sets down his fork. "Since when?"

Dean feels himself start to get irritated, uncomfortable under Sam's stare. "I don't know, man. Just distracted, I guess. What's the big deal?"

Sam shrugs easily, drops his gaze. "No big deal. Just seems like you've been someplace else, is all."

"Yeah, well." He finishes off the last of his coffee and reaches for the check. "Maybe we oughta think about hittin' the road before too much longer, huh?"

Sam goes still at that, and Dean didn't mean to come out with it like that, but now that it's out there, he might as well bite the bullet. "Just seems like, I don't know. Maybe we're chasin' our tails here."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam admits, like it costs him. He spreads his hand out on the edge of the table, long fingers traced by faint scars. The pale shape of his cast makes the bones look more fragile than they are, than he is; it's been months, and Dean thinks, he's gonna have to work the hell out of that hand to get his strength back, to learn to trust it again.

The thought leads to places he's been trying hard not to go, and he feels the heat come up in his face as Sam looks up.

"Just a little longer, okay?" Sam asks, a stubborn hope feverish in his eyes. "A few days—a week at the most. That's all."

Dean's mind is so not on Ava Wilson right now, it's not even funny. "Yeah," he says, voice rough. "Okay."

Dean Winchester is a lifelong expert at avoiding things he doesn't want to think about. But it's then, that moment, that he starts to realize he's in trouble.

* * *

Sunlight streams in through the window, reflects bright off the cars in the parking lot. Two paper coffee cups sit in peril on the nightstand. The TV is on, too loud; Regis is laughing at his own wit as Dean and Sam wrestle over the remote, laughing, too.

"Give it back!"

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Dean switches the remote to his other hand, easily eluding Sam's grasp; Sam makes a serious play, then, but Dean's faster, and he's ready for him. "Not even close, Sam-I-Am, care to try again?"

"Oh, you are so gonna pay for that."

"As if."

Sam's fighting with a serious handicap, one-handed, but he's got every other advantage and he knows it. Dean knows it, too, and takes that as license to fight dirty. One of them hits the power button and the TV shuts off abruptly, but neither of them really notices; scrabbling ensues without a clear winner. When Sam goes for Dean's ribs with an unrepentant grin, the clear intent to tickle, and in plain violation of all treaty agreements, Dean shoves the remote down his own pants.

"Dude, that's so not fair!"

Sam sounds exactly like he did when he was five. Dean fends him off with an elbow, twisting out of reach. He can't resist. "Whoever said life was fair, Sammy?"

It's then that Sam stops protesting and gets serious, and Dean's fast, and fights dirty, but Sam outweighs him now by like a metric ton and none of Dean's old tried and true tricks work quite the same way any more. Sam's paws are all over him and the kid's got reach and weight on his side, talk about unfair. How wrong is that?

Sam gets an elbow into him and air whooshes out. Dean sucks in a breath, laughing, and Sam's twisting around on top of him, between his legs, weight bearing him down to the mattress. The flash of his grin is a bright spark as he gets Dean pinned, their legs entwined. One arm presses heavy across Dean's chest. He snakes a hand down Dean's pants without warning and comes up with the remote, triumphant.

It hits Dean like a fist to the gut. Sam smells incredible—this mix of shampoo and day-old aftershave and sugar-cinnamon from his cappuccino—and Dean gets hard so fast he feels dizzy, trapped against Sam with nowhere to go. He tries to get away, but it's too late; Sam goes still against him, his whole body abruptly motionless. His grin fades. The sun's behind him, a blinding halo.

Dean shoves him off, or tries to. "Dude, get off me." It comes out all breathless, maybe as desperate as he feels. Even as he says it, it hits him down where it counts that if Sam doesn't want to get off him he's not a hundred percent sure he could make him, and it's fucked up but he gets harder at the thought, pressing against the seam of his jeans and the solid muscle of Sam's thigh. His face is hot and he feels his pulse pounding between his legs, at his temples. There's not enough air.

"Dean," Sam says, like only he can say it, with this weight behind it like Dean's the center of everything. It does things to him he can't even think about, not with Sam on top of him like this; he shoves Sam off and knows he's given too much away already, his face and neck flushed. He knows he should laugh it off, make a joke of it, but understanding is written all over Sam's face, and Dean's reminded with painful clarity that all his smokescreens get him exactly nowhere with Sam these days.

They separate. Sam sinks back to sit on the edge of the bed, and Dean sits up, turns his back to him, sitting on the other side.

"Not one word," he says at last.

"Dean, it's all right."

Dean laughs, and it sounds as shaky as he feels. "You got a funny definition of all right."

"Yeah. Okay, maybe, but—"

"But, nothing." Dean tries hard for normal, or close as he can get. "Been way too long since I got any action, and we're not even talking about you, you freakish monk." He feels like he's choking on it. Sam's weight shifts behind him and Dean tenses, but Sam doesn't touch him; he leans forward, elbows on knees in Dean's peripheral vision. Something heavy and sick rests in Dean's stomach, and he wishes more than anything that he could go back ten minutes and erase this like it never happened. He half turns, not quite looking at Sam. "If you ever bring this up again, I swear to God—"

Sam gets up, stands at the edge of Dean's sight with his back to Dean, like he doesn't want to hear any more. "Listen," he says after a minute, his voice low and even. "I'm gonna... go. Outside. Or something."

Dean listens to him move away, listens to the door open, then close again. He closes his eyes. With a groan, he falls back on the bed and puts one arm over his face, wishing he could crawl in a hole somewhere.

"Great, Einstein. Just fuck everything up, why don't you?"

* * *

Sam's nowhere around when Dean finally gets himself together enough to go looking. The car's still there, but no Sam—and Dean's well aware that the resourceful little bastard doesn't need the car to get himself gone.

It's three hours before Sam comes back, and by the time he does, Dean's past mortified beyond belief and well into pissed off. He's sick to death of Sam walking out on him and disappearing, and he doesn't really care if it is his fault. He's so sick of it, in fact, he's almost forgotten why Sam left in the first place.

The second Sam comes through the door, Dean's on his feet.

"Where the hell were you?"

Sam, distracted, doesn't seem to register Dean's tone. He's already grabbing the rucksack, checking supplies and stuffing them into it. "Library, checking out the neighborhood crime reports in the local papers from three weeks ago."

Dean's focus shifts instantly. "Crime reports? What for?"

"I got the idea at the coffee place. I was looking through the paper, and I saw that crime listing they have by zip code, you know?"

"Yeah, but we already checked the police reports for Ava's neighborhood. We even looked for stolen cars, license plates, the works."

"Not for here, man. For Lafayette, Indiana. It just occurred to me, if we were all there, Ava and me, and that kid Scott—maybe the demon was there, too. Maybe it wasn't waiting here for her at all. Maybe it followed her home."

"And?"

Sam zips up the rucksack and hoists it over one shoulder. "And I got us a lead."

* * *

Sam reads aloud while Dean drives, giving him the basics: Dave Carter, truck driver from St. Paul, disappears off I-65 outside of Indianapolis. His rig is found abandoned two miles from where Sam last saw Ava, blood on the steering wheel and the windshield. Five days later, Dave Carter's body shows up hidden in the trunk of a car in a scrap yard in Columbus, Ohio, with injuries that point to a head-on collision and no clue as to how he got there.

Dean tries that on for size. "So you think what? The demon possessed him, used him to go after Ava, then ditched him in Ohio?"

"That's the idea."

Dean purses his lips, eyebrows drawing together. "Kind of a long shot, don't you think?"

Sam looks up at that, and that feverish look is back in his eyes, like he thinks if he can save this one girl, maybe he won't turn into something Dean might have to put down like a dog. "Weird enough that we'd check it out anyway, right? And the timing makes sense."

It is pretty news of the weird, Dean has to admit. What he doesn't say is the obvious: if by some outside chance that yellow-eyed son of a bitch is involved, and if the thing dumped Dave Carter in Ohio, then it probably took over someone else. Ava Wilson seems like the most likely candidate. Sam's got to be thinking it, too, but Dean guesses they'll worry about that once they get there and see what's what.

At the junk yard in Columbus, they pretend to be more or less what they are, for once—two brothers looking for parts for their car. Dean draws the guy running the place into talking about classic Chevys, and it doesn't take him long to steer the conversation where he wants it. It's been a few weeks, and the guy's looking for someone to talk to. When Dean acts interested, he's happy enough to tell them what little he knows.

Out on the lot, they find the car without too much trouble. The dirt around it is tracked over and over with footprints, and yellow police tape still clings to a pole nearby.

They dust around the edge of the trunk with a rag. Sam sniffs the dust, sifts through it with the tip of his finger. "Check it out, Dean." It's sulfur—Dean can smell it from here. "Looks like I was right."

Dean grunts agreement. They've been doing this long enough that their long shots do have a habit of panning out. "So, what now?" Dean straightens up from where he'd crouched by the fender, dusting off his hands. "Dude said the cops didn't get anything off the security tapes."

"Cops don't know what we know." Sam's charged up from finding a real lead, in better spirits than Dean's seen him in weeks. He cocks a grin. "You could get yourself arrested again. Snake 'em from evidence."

"I could, smart ass, but it wouldn't be first on my list. Got any other bright ideas?"

"Maybe check crime reports in the vicinity again? Look for stolen cars, missing persons?"

Dean considers. "Worth a shot, I guess."

They're a few miles down the road, Sam's GPS telling them to turn right and continue on one point four miles, when Dean frowns at the rearview for the second time in five minutes. This time, Sam notices.

"What is it?"

Dean doesn't answer. He takes the next turn, cutting off a bus and crossing two lanes to do it; the black SUV keeps going, and Dean breathes easier.

"Dean, what did you see?"

Dean shrugs, trying to ease the tension that's pulling across his neck and shoulders. "Nothin'. Just gettin' paranoid, I guess."

He can feel Sam's eyes on him, lingering too long, seeing too much, as usual. He knows better than to think that's the end of it. Sam lets it go for now, though, and drops his eyes back to his handheld. "Left at the next intersection," he says, and Dean tries not to think about anything but the case.

The library's a dead end. It's starting to look like old yellow-eyes left that junk yard on foot—if it even was him—and they've got nothing to tell them whose feet he was using at the time. Even a five-foot-one secretary from Peoria could have hoofed it from there to three state highways, two interstates, and any number of county roads.

"Now what?" Dean asks, when they're back in the car. He doesn't really expect Sam to give up that easy, so he isn't surprised when Sam frowns and rubs his bottom lip.

"We could talk to Carter's family."

Dean scowls. "What'd we want to do that for?"

"Maybe see if he had a cell phone?" At Dean's look, annoyance descends over Sam's face, and Dean knows he's running out of ideas. "Maybe he called someone. It's worth a shot."

"I don't know, man."

Sam sighs in defeat and pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyebrows. "Yeah, okay, you're right."

Dean wishes he wasn't. "You were right about Carter—not your fault it didn't pan out. At least we know something we didn't know before. We gotta keep workin' it, that's all."

Sam nods, but he looks like he's reached the bottom of his reserves, like he's run on hope for too long and the tank is dry.

The long rays of the sun paint the shadows of buildings and trees in wide swathes on the pavement, glow blood-red on Sam's face and across Dean's hands on the wheel. Dean tightens his grip, fighting the urge to drive the hell away from here and put some miles behind them. There's nobody around—the library's closed and the parking lot's almost empty, but it feels like something's breathing down their necks, and he doesn't much like the feeling.

Then Sam says, "Who am I kidding, right?" and Dean tenses, thinking maybe this is what his subconscious was trying to avoid.

"Sam—"

Sam looks up, and Dean's gut sinks, because he knows that look, knows he can't head this one off at the pass. Sam's face is drawn in painful lines, eyes bleak with that bitterness Dean hates. "Just say it. We're both thinking the same thing. The trail's cold—even if she was here, Ava could be anywhere by now. It's another dead end."

"Come on, you don't know that."

"That's the problem, isn't it? I don't _know_ anything. I mean, I'm supposed to be psychic, right? It worked for Ava. She saw me, right? She saved my life."

"Stop it, Sam. This is not your fault, okay?"

Sam doesn't answer, just looks away; Dean's jaw tightens, and he jerks his chin, wishing he had some magic words that could wipe away that look, that hopeless set to Sam's shoulders. It's like Sam's got everything riding on finding this girl, like he's been holding onto the idea that he can save her as some kind of life-preserver against the ever-deepening well of bad shit life's been digging under them lately, and Dean gets that, he really does, but he's known for a long time that you can make yourself crazy that way. You get through it one day at a time, you put one foot in front of the other, and you don't think about it, that's all.

Dean closes his eyes, rubs them, an ache in his bones that runs deeper than he can say. Sam's never had the knack for it. He's been carrying the weight of guilt and fear and simmering anger for too long, and Dean feels raw, like the sharp edges of Sam's psyche are scraping over places not yet healed in his own. In a minute, he's going to say or do something he can't take back. "You know what? Can we just... not do this right now?"

Sam's quiet a second, and then he says carefully, "Can we not do what?"

Dean looks up in time to see the stillness that closes over Sam, the uncertainty. Dean's been playing the smoke and mirrors game so long now, Sam doesn't know what to do with sudden honesty, and his wariness is written all over him. Dean wants to laugh, but it feels like it's lodged somewhere in his chest. Have things really gotten so bad between them that Sam's gotta look at him like that?

Without warning, the memory of what happened that morning hits him hard. His stomach turns over and he can't look at Sam any more, can't stop the heat that rushes to his face. Yeah, he guesses, maybe things are that bad. Maybe Sam's right to be wary.

"Dean?"

Dean swallows, and the words come out in a rush. "Look, man, I just— This whole situation sucks, okay? I know it does, and I'm sorry. I wish I had all the answers, believe me. But right now, I want to get out of here, find some food and a place to crash. Tomorrow, we get up and start fresh, figure out where we go from here. Okay?" His voice sounds rough. He's not even sure what they're talking about any more.

For too many seconds, Sam doesn't answer, and Dean's afraid he's going to push it. He doesn't know what _it_ is, but he's clear on the fact that talking about it is pretty much the last thing he wants to do, ever. He could have gone his whole life without knowing what it feels like to have Sam between his legs and pressing against him like that, without the intimate knowledge of how flushed Sam gets when he's close to making himself come. If he could unknow it, he would, but they've had only each other for so long, a little world of two, and somehow everything he feels for his brother has gotten all tangled up with parts of him that have no business slinking out into the light of day.

Whatever's written on his face, Sam takes pity on him—or maybe takes the out Dean's giving him, Dean's not sure which. "Yeah, okay," Sam says at last.

Dean lets out a breath and cranks the engine over, hating how grateful he feels.

* * *

Dinner is pizza at a family place on the north side of the city. It's the best meal they've had in a while; Sam eats a salad twice the size of his head and by the time the pizza comes, they're arguing over Amityville theories, their version of normal.

It's after ten when Dean pulls in to the Boone Docks Inn. The sign says the rooms have a fridge, and there's a pool. When Sam holds out his hand, Dean gives in without protest and sends him in with David Lowenstein's credit card.

They put their stuff in the absurdly nautical-themed room—Lake Erie's about a hundred and fifty miles from here, and the nearest ocean's almost four times that far. Sam volunteers to go for beer, and Dean's more than willing to let him. On the surface, nothing's wrong. Nothing's changed.

While Dean waits, he flips channels. He stops on a rerun of _America's Most Wanted,_ and finds himself idly fantasizing about what it might be like if they really did drop off the grid for a while, like they've talked about a few times since Baltimore. If they went back to finding their own hunts, maybe set up camp somewhere up in the mountains, someplace they could come back to. Even Dad liked to stop now and then, back in the day, catch a break someplace they could call home, at least for a while.

Then he thinks about his name and his face in the federal database, and a heaviness settles over him. The best he can really hope for is that Sam gets out of this clean one day, that he hasn't screwed up any chance Sam ever had of having a real future. And what does it say, that the best future he can envision for his brother is one without him in it?

It's the last line of thought he remembers; when he wakes, the TV is off, and the covers are folded over him. The room's dark, he's alone, and a quick glance at the other bed tells him it hasn't been slept in. The clock radio blinks 2:10 a.m.—he's been asleep for hours. Must've been more tired than he thought. Sam pulled his boots off and tucked him in, and Dean doesn't remember any of it.

Dean puts the first stirrings of panic down with ruthless force. Ever since Gordon, he's been less than thrilled with the whole idea of letting Sam out of his sight. It's not new, that feeling, but it's a lot more intense and specific these days, and he's been working hard to control the knee-jerk response that makes him sort of want to raze villages and torch the countryside every time Sam's off his radar for more than five minutes. He knows he can't sustain it over the long haul; the stress is gonna kill him, if Sam doesn't kill him first. Of course, it's one thing to know it, and another to get the message through to his lizard brain.

Waking up alone in a motel room with no idea where Sam is—this falls more or less in the _valid reason to freak out_ category on the Dean Winchester scale.

Luckily for certain pain-in-the-ass little brothers, it takes Dean all of about a minute to find Sam. He's sitting on the concrete steps right outside the motel room door, elbows braced on knees, back hunched like it's hurting him. Three empty beer bottles sit at his feet. Dean stops and makes himself take a deep breath, waits for his adrenaline levels to quit spiking before he steps outside.

"Hey."

Sam glances up, then shifts over, making room. "Hey."

Dean sits down beside him, taking the beer Sam's still working on when Sam offers it, downing a healthy swig of the cool, bitter contents. He hands it back. "Nightmares?"

Sam shakes his head and studies his hands, the bottle dangling between his knees. "Just couldn't sleep."

Dean nods. "I hear it helps if you run around the pool naked nine or ten times, then cross your eyes and say three Hail Marys in pig Latin."

Sam gives a faint snort at that, the furrow between his brows smoothing out. He glances over at Dean, smile still playing around his mouth. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a twisted sense of humor?"

"Other than you? No, never."

"Uh huh." Sam takes a sip of the beer, and against his will, Dean's eyes follow the movement of his throat for a second before he makes himself look away. Moths circle the single globe light on the second floor landing, their shadows flickering on the pavement.

Sam's voice is soft, rough with feeling, when he says, "I don't know if I can do this any more, Dean."

A warm, gloved fist wraps itself around Dean's insides, and he can't help the startled breath he draws. Pressure and heat squeeze inside him, don't let go. The fine hair on his arms stands up; he holds himself very still. "Do what?" he says, and feels his heart start to pound.

It seems like a long time before Sam finally says, "You remember what I said back in Guthrie? About the demon pushing us, trying to find ways to break us?"

Dean swallows with effort. "Yeah," he says, "I remember."

They fall into silence, dark and fluttery and tense with things Dean thinks are his imagination, things he wouldn't let himself feel if it wasn't two in the morning, if it didn't feel like they were the only two people awake in the world.

Sam doesn't say anything. Dean keeps his eyes on Sam's hands, on the drops of condensation that bead on the bottle where it hangs suspended from long, tapered fingers. At last he risks a look sidelong, and Sam turns and looks at him, a little drunk, his eyes bright in the shadows. His face twists.

"I'm scared, man. I'm scared as hell I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone, and it'll be your ring I find with blood on it, and that'll be that."

_Welcome to my world,_ Dean thinks. His throat feels as tight as everything else inside him; he has to swallow again before he can speak. "Yeah, well, like I said. Not getting rid of me that easy." Like always, seeing Sam hurt twists him up inside, makes him want to do or say anything to make that look go away. "Hey, look," he says before he can stop himself. "It's gonna be okay. We're gonna get through this—both of us."

Sam smiles, lopsided, bleak, and too old to be twenty-three. "You do know how ridiculous that is, right?"

"Shut up, dude, don't harsh my pollyanna. I been workin' overtime on that."

The smile widens into the bare ghost of a grin, and Sam relaxes. It's enough. As long as Dean can still make him smile, or laugh, or get mad, things don't look so bad.

Dean looks away. He doesn't trust himself, doesn't trust Sam, not at two in the morning, worn out and scared and buzzed into sleepy, dangerous affection. Sam's shoulder is solid and warm against his, and all the things he wants are knotted up inside him, too close to the surface.

"Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry, about running out on you the way I did."

Whatever Dean's expecting, it isn't that. He looks sharply at Sam, his face hot, and hopes to Christ it doesn't show in this light. "Where the hell'd that come from?"

"I just— I should have said it before." Sam looks up, brows drawn together. "I never planned on it being more than a few days. I needed some space to think. To figure things out."

Dean's got no idea what he's supposed to say to that. "Yeah, well, whatever."

"Hey, man, look, I'm trying to apologize here."

Irritation prickles along the back of Dean's neck. "What do you want me to say? You were pissed I didn't tell you everything. Okay, I get it."

"Dean." Sam's voice is soft, reasonable. Hurt. It makes Dean feel worse. "I didn't do it because I was pissed off. I didn't do it to get back at you, or some crap. Is that really what you think?"

"Look, can we just forget it?"

"Obviously not. Dude, you seriously think I'd do something like that just to get back at you?"

Dean wants to get up, to put some distance between them, but he feels like he can't trust his legs to do what he tells them. He gives an uncomfortable shrug. "I don't know, man, I just—"

"You just what?"

Dean's desperation to end this conversation forces the words out. "Just don't do it again, okay? Do what you gotta do, but don't— disappear on me like that."

The understanding on Sam's face is like a punch to the heart, and Dean knows with a sinking certainty that he's just spread his guts out all over the place, thrown his issues up all over his brother's feet again, even though he's sworn to himself he'll stop laying this shit on Sam. He pushes to his feet, unable to sit still any more. "Man, don't look at me like that. You know I hate this crap." He turns his back to Sam because God only knows what's written on his face.

"Dean, wait."

And the memory's bright and sharp at the back of his throat: six-year-old Sammy saying the same thing in the way of all little brothers, saying, _wait up, Dean!_—saying it at eight, at ten, until one day he'd been too old to say it, and Dean had looked back to see Sam had gone his own way, like it was never a question. He closes his eyes.

Behind him, Sam's on his feet, a bit unsteady. His voice is thick with things Dean doesn't want to hear. "Dean, I get it, all right? I get it."

_No, Sammy, I really don't think that you do,_ is what Dean thinks, and if he's wrong, he doesn't want to know.

He shoves down the shaky, sudden heat in his belly and puts two steps between them before he turns back, walls firmly back in place. "Look, man. It's been a long day. Let's get some shut-eye. Okay?"

Sam nods at last, looking every bit as tired as Dean feels. It's more mercy than Dean expects, more than he deserves, but he's only too glad to take it and run, if it means they can get through this day without doing worse damage than he's already done.

Long after Sam's out, Dean lies awake and remembers Sam saying, _you and me, we're all that's left._ He remembers, and tries to make himself believe it.

* * *

Morning dawns, bright and cool. They sleep in for the first time in a dog's age, and it's almost eleven before they're on the road.

They go back to the junk yard, start running recon on the surrounding area. It's a long shot, and they know it, but intuition counts for a lot. More often than not, hunting comes down to looking around you with your eyes wide open, letting yourself see the obvious.

They've been at it barely ten minutes when something catches the corner of Dean's eye. Sam's got his head bent over a notebook and is flipping through pages of his own handwriting, looking for something. Even after all these years, he always does this—he'll read for hours in the car and then sit there pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose and trying to pretend it doesn't bother him.

"You know you're gonna give yourself a headache like that."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, sure you are," Dean says, but he's still watching the mirrors, trying to catch another glimpse—

There. Black SUV, four o'clock. Dean frowns; yeah, that is definitely the same Explorer he saw shadowing them the day before. "Dammit, we got company."

* * *

No consultation is necessary; they've done this before. Dean pulls over at the next gas station and parks up front by the food shop, heading inside. Sam gets out and leans against the car, waiting.

From inside, Dean watches the Explorer pull in. A guy gets out, mid-forties, boots, flannel shirt—and silver rings on both hands. He could be John Winchester, if his hair was darker and he was maybe two inches shorter; Dean would bet his left nut that somewhere hidden in the back of that truck is a weapons cache, flasks of holy water, and at least two Bibles.

Dean's seen enough. Face set, he pays for two sodas and three newspapers and strides out to the car, not looking at Sam as they get back in and pull away. He doesn't have to look in the rearview to know the Explorer's back there, three cars behind.

Sam's quiet for a minute, watching the mirror. "Dean, we don't even know for sure he's a hunter."

Dean shoots him an impatient look. "You kiddin' me?"

"Okay, so... maybe he is. Maybe he's working the case, same as us."

"Yeah, maybe. But it's not looking real likely, is it?"

Dean doesn't much care about the case. Right now, he doesn't care all that much about Ava Wilson, either. What he cares about is putting himself bodily between Sam and whoever this son of a bitch thinks he is, and making sure he knows good and well that he's fucking with the wrong family.

"Dean."

Dean feels the muscle in his jaw jump, knows he's tense as a virgin on prom night. "What?"

"Talk to me. What's the plan?"

Dean's instinct is to take the guy out as fast as possible, before he has a chance to call for backup—to lead him down some side road and yank the wheel over, slam on the brakes and jump out with guns blazing. His instinct wars with what he knows, which is that right now, they have the advantage: they know the guy's following them, and he doesn't know they know.

He debates it with himself, trying to keep a grip on the cold, leaden thing that's taken up residence in his stomach. _You can't protect me,_ Sam said, like it was nothing, but Dean hasn't bought into that line and he won't, not as long as there's still breath in his body. The hell with that.

Sam, damn him, reads Dean like a book. "Dean, no. Whatever it is you're thinking—"

"Shut up, Sam. You don't know what I'm thinking."

"Right. So I'm crazy if I think you might be planning to run this guy off the next overpass."

"You said it, not me." Dean changes lanes, checking his mirrors to make sure their shadow's still with them. "Besides, I was thinking more along the lines of a dirt road to nowhere." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam pull out his phone. "Hey, hey. Who you calling?"

"Ellen. See if I can find out who we're dealing with."

"No way, man. Forget it. Somebody at that roadhouse overhears, and next thing we know our buddy back there knows we're onto him. That happens, we can kiss goodbye any hope we ever had of sleeping again."

Frustrated, Sam lets the hand holding his phone drop into his lap, call unsent. "We don't even know what this guy wants. It could have nothing to do with me."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure as hell not willing to take that chance." Sam's eyes are on the mirror. Dean can feel his tension, feel it strung out between them. "Goddammit, Sam—"

"What? We're not gonna waste the guy!"

"Oh, no? Because that's exactly what he's gonna do to you, first chance he gets."

"You don't know that."

Dean laughs, soft and bitter, and gives a little shake of his head. "Whatever. You go right on believing that if you want to."

They drive in tense silence for a minute, Dean mapping local roads in his head. At last, Sam says, "Even if he is after me, we can't kill him, Dean. He's just doing his job. What happened with Gordon's bad enough. It gets out we're killing humans, killing _hunters_—our lives won't be worth a crap and you know it."

Dean's fists clench on the wheel. His chest hurts. "You got any other bright ideas, then, genius?"

"Yeah. We ditch him, and get the hell out of Dodge."

Dean feels Sam's eyes on him, hears the certainty in his voice. For long seconds, Dean struggles with the panic that's lodged itself in his gut, that keeps trying to claw its way up into his throat. He knows he's not thinking clearly about this; he can't. All he can think of is the sound of shattering glass and the soft pop of a sniper rifle; the blast and heat and splintered fallout of a grenade against the back of his neck, and how fast it can happen if he lets it, how fine the line can be.

Sam's calm, though, even though Dean can see he's afraid. He holds Dean's gaze when Dean looks over at him, steady and sure. "Dean, it's the only thing we can do."

"Fine, have it your way," Dean says at last.

He glances at the mirror, angling for the next interstate on-ramp; the Explorer follows, still keeping its careful distance.

They lose him at the interchange inside of ten minutes, but it's two hours and a hundred and fifty miles before Dean can breathe again.

* * *

They drive in silence. Dean doesn't trust himself to say anything Sam won't see right through. He doesn't even protest when Sam turns on NPR, just lets it fall into the background and lets the road carry them for a while, the closest thing to safe he knows.

Somewhere between Dayton and Indianapolis, he lets himself think about how they'd sat out on the goddamned steps last night and neither one of them had been carrying. Sam had been out there alone, maybe for hours. They'd slept in, both of them dead to the world.

Christ, he's still shaking. Sam stretches his arm out along the back of the seat, doesn't touch him.

It's another ten miles before Dean lets himself look over, lets himself take Sam in, solid and unhurt beside him. Sam looks back, steady, not saying anything, and a big part of Dean wants to grab him and pick him up and run with him, not stop until they've run far enough that nothing and no one will ever find them.

* * *

It's six hours back to Peoria, and the last hour or so, the sky gets darker with every mile. The clouds break as they pull into the parking lot of a motel a few miles from their old place. Dean jogs through the cold raindrops into the office, checks in using cash and a fake New Mexico driver's license; through the window he sees Sam climb out of the car and stand under the downpour, face tilted up to the sky. It makes his chest ache like a bullet wound. He doesn't know what to do with that feeling, so he does what he's always done; he pushes it down and buries it deep, as deep as he can.

The room's not far from where they parked. He heads back through the rain to let them in, and Sam follows him inside without a word. Dean throws his bag on the bed and reaches for the light switch.

Sam's hand is there, stopping him. His eyes reflect the faint light from the window, asking him a question. Dean's breath hitches in his chest and he thinks maybe he's answered it without meaning to, because Sam's fingers tighten on his and they're back up against the wall, Sam leaning over him. When did he get so freaking big, anyway?

"Dean," he says in the dark, giving Dean the chance to say no, and Dean wants to say no, in his head he's saying it as forcefully as he knows how, but the word never makes it to his lips. He fists his hand in Sam's shirt and leans up and Sam meets him halfway, more than halfway, mouth cold and sweet from the rain and so fucking good it hurts. Dean's scared and he's still shaking and he's forgotten how to care where Sam ends and he begins.

Their tongues slide roughly against each other, hungry and desperate. Sam's already unbuttoning his own jeans, little jerks of motion as if he can't get them undone fast enough; then he's free, naked between them as he works Dean's fly, frantic. Dean stiffens zero to sixty the second Sam's cold fingers touch him. He licks deep into Sam's mouth and makes a sound of muffled pain, shoulders hitting the wall as Sam opens up to him. Sam's hand warms fast when he wraps it around Dean and jerks him, rough and painful and sweeter than dying.

Dean can't think. There must have been a moment, a hundred of them, when he could have stopped this from happening, but it's long past, hours or days or maybe years lost now. Sam's name is locked in his throat and he can't say it, can't say it because if he does—

It's wrong and it's fucked up and he understands all the reasons why, and not one of them matters. Any other time in his life, he could have fought it, but Sam's too far inside his defenses; he aches, and he needs this, and he's got nothing left to fight with.

Sam fumbles for Dean's hand where it's twisted up in Sam's shirt and yanks it down, wraps it around himself. Dean feels the wet slip-slide of Sam's arousal against his wrist, feels how close he is just from this—the two of them up against a wall like there can be some kind of respite here, like it isn't going to kill them both. Dean's fingers curl around Sam, stutter into rhythm; when he starts to jerk him off, firm and steady with his ring rubbing over the head, Sam breaks away from kissing him and gives a broken sob, his head dropping to Dean's shoulder.

"God, Dean— I can't—"

Despite the choked words, Sam won't slow down and Dean doesn't want him to; he hears himself making soft, desperate grunts, and Sam's chest hitches with the same desperation. Dean jerks eager and slick in Sam's grasp, too fast now, he can't stop himself. His body shudders, racing to catch up. So fucking long, and he's been close to the wire for days, feels like. Sam feels so heavy and warm and solid against him, he could cry, if he wasn't busy shaking himself apart.

"It's okay," Dean chokes out, and it breaks something open inside him, something he can't afford. Sam's got him cranked up and flying, little catches in his breath and Sam's thumb slipping roughly over and over him. Dean's spread wide open and defenseless against him, and it shouldn't be this good but it is—fuck, it is. Dean's heart is hammering and it doesn't matter now. He's already there, a wall of _oh fuck_ slamming into him.

Backdraft sucks all the air out of the room; merciless release floods him, wave after wave, and it's all he can do to muffle the awful little sobs that come out of him, his face buried in Sam's neck.

He has no idea how much time passes before he realizes he's lost the rhythm Sam needs, that Sam's fumbling for his hand, ragged and awkward. Sam's slippery with it, hot and needy under Dean's touch, and it makes Dean feel sick but he's helpless against the gut-wrenching rush it gives him to realize Sam's about to come for him. With the little coordination he can manage, his fist jammed tight between them, Dean grabs him close; Sam stutters into rhythm again with a soft, muffled cry of relief, slow and unsteady this time. It's only a few seconds before he jerks against Dean and Dean feels the sudden flood of Sam's heat against his shirt.

Sam's head falls heavy, his hair wet with rain, his face hot against Dean's neck. His knees buckle. He shakes when he comes, and the sound he makes goes right through Dean in a way that feels worse than any of the rest of it.

Dean finds the back of his neck, keeps his head bowed close. He can't speak. His throat hurts so bad it feels like it'll be hours before he can.

At last Sam braces himself against the wall, rubbing his cheekbone against Dean's shoulder, bone against bone. He smells like sweat and salt and fear, and Dean wants to shove him, hit him for doing this to them, wants to grab onto him and bury his face in Sam's shirt and not let him up for a week. It feels like they've crossed every line there is. There's no going back from this, and Dean's aware of panic starting to press on his heart. He can't feel like this, not about Sam. He can't, and he does, and he is so screwed.

Sam's already getting himself together, finding the strength to shift away. Cold air hits the slippery mess they've made between them and Dean sees the grimace that flickers over Sam's face, the flushed, hectic color in his cheeks. Sam looks like he's run a race, sweat-damp hair clinging to his neck in little tendrils, and Dean wants to look away, but he can't. They've been headed here for so long, and he feels like an idiot for not understanding that. He wonders with a kind of dull heaviness if Sam always knew.

Sam touches his face, an absent brush of his thumb against Dean's eyebrow. Dean closes his eyes, can't help himself—and it's then that he knows he's finished, that there'll never be anyone else for him, not like this.

It's that numb, sick understanding that finally breaks his paralysis. He shoves himself back in his pants and suppresses a shudder at the stimulation of flesh still swollen and sensitive to the touch. Half blind, he pushes past Sam and goes to his duffle, yanking out a t-shirt that, if not exactly clean, at least isn't sticky with the evidence of how messed up things just got.

He hears Sam draw in a breath, deep and unsteady. "Dean—"

Dean pulls the shirts he's wearing over his head. They get tangled up with his amulet until he yanks them free with a choked curse; he balls the shirts up and shoves them in with his laundry. "Goddammit—"

"Come on, man, don't do this."

Dean feels his face set. He can't look at Sam, doesn't trust himself to. He's been dealing with every fucked up thing known to man or demon since he was barely old enough to walk, but he doesn't begin to know how to deal with this.

"So you're not talking to me now?"

Sam sounds ragged, hoarse. The pressure in Dean's chest hurts too much; he turns on Sam, helpless anger bursting out of him. "What the hell do you want me to say?"

Sam stares at him in disbelief. "I don't know. Something, at least."

It's worse even than he imagined, looking Sam in the eye. Emotion knots him up, an awful tightness around his heart, nausea rising. Dean clamps down on it with all his will, shoving it back. "Sammy." It comes out choked, and he fights hard to keep it together now, when it counts.

Sam's eyes plead with him, too bright. "Dean, man, you can't tell me this is just me."

No. He can't. The panic sets in deeper, squeezes his insides tighter. Dean turns away, unable to look at Sam any more; he looks down at his hands, starts sorting laundry with unthinking, jerky motions. "Doesn't matter. It was a mistake."

"The hell it was."

Dean hears the dangerous note that once upon a time heralded a real knock-down, drag-out with Dad. His fists clench in a pair of mud-streaked jeans.

"The fuck do you call it, then?"

Sam's closed the distance between them. "This was a long time coming, and you know it." He's too close, his solid presence and his low voice brushing across raw places in Dean, full of truths Dean really doesn't want to hear.

He doesn't stop to listen. He shoves the dirty clothes away, finds himself moving before he can even think about it. Without another word to Sam, he goes and shuts himself in the bathroom, breathing hard.

Dean runs his hands through his hair and looks at himself in the mirror, seeing his lips flushed and reddened, remembering the feeling of Sam coming against him, breaking against him like the sea. He thinks of what their dad would say if he knew, and bile rises.

He shudders and strips down, then gets in the shower; he turns on the water with unsteady hands and leans his head against one arm. He still wants to hit something, but the shakiness overcomes him, makes him feel like he's coming apart at the edges. _Come on, Dean, get it together. _

Yeah, good luck with that, Sam's voice says in his head, and Dean closes his eyes and does his best to stop thinking altogether.

* * *

When he comes out, Sam's on the computer like nothing's happened—but the whole line of his body, the stubborn set of his jaw, says volumes.

Dean sits down on the bed and leans forward on his elbows, feeling like he's aged about ten years in the last three days, like everything is bright, and hurts. For a long time, he can't find words.

"Look, man—" he says at last, laying it out because he doesn't know what else to do, how else they go on from this. "We been living in each other's pockets so long, maybe we got some boundary issues, and I'm as guilty of that as anyone. But this... whatever this was, it can't happen again." Sam looks up, all his stubborn starting to disintegrate, turning into a kind of desperate determination that's worse, that makes Dean's stomach turn over. He laughs, uneasy. "Fuck's sake, don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

Dean pushes to his feet and starts to pace. "Like I'm saying something you don't know."

Sam says nothing, and Dean plunges on. "Sam, this isn't us—you know it as well as I do. You know how I feel about women. Man, I really dig women. Preferably with soft curves and not too many morals, and I mean—don't take this the wrong way, but Jessica had some pretty impressive assets. That Sarah girl, too. Last I checked, razor burn and a good right cross ain't exactly your thing."

He's deliberately more crass than he has to be, deliberately brings up Jessica to piss Sam off, but Sam shakes his head like Dean's missing the obvious.

"It's not about that, and you know it."

Dean lets out a breath, impatient. "Whatever. Look, it's simple—we gotta get laid now and then, that's all. I been telling you that for weeks." Sam's jaw sets now, but he still doesn't say anything, like he's letting Dean have his say. It's making Dean nervous. He stops pacing finally and lets his hands fall to his sides, helpless. "Come on, say something."

Sam gives a laugh, soft and bitter. "What do you want me to say? Sounds like you already made up your mind how it's going to be."

Dean closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his face. "Come on, man. I'm tryin', here." He's begging now, and he knows it; he's got no pride left, and that should bother him more than it does, but he barely even remembers that guy any more. "I just— I don't want things to be weird between us. Things are jacked up enough as it is. Can't we act like this was, I don't know, some kind of anomaly, or somethin'? We gotta analyze it to death?"

Sam's staring up at him like he's speaking in tongues. "I'm not the one who's trying to explain it away like it was nothing."

"That's not—" Dean's face warms. "I never said that."

"So what _are_ you saying?"

Against Dean's will, his eyes flicker to the muscles of Sam's spread thighs outlined against his faded jeans, his hands resting easily there. The knees are worn soft and thin, his hair's still mussed from Dean's hands, and there's heat in his eyes; he's not quite angry, but there's something simmering below the surface, and it's throwing Dean pretty badly. Feeling sick, he averts his gaze. He can't even look at Sam the same any more. The thought that it might always be like this is an ache inside him, a bottomless pit.

Dean tenses further, his desperation worse, tight and angry in his chest. Why's Sam gotta push this? "I'm saying this never happened." He makes his voice hard, final, not caring how unfair it is. "I'm saying, drop it, before we make things worse than we already have."

"Fine," Sam snaps, clipped. And Dean's even more unsettled by how his gut sinks, like he was hoping Sam would push it.

Like he doesn't really want to drop it at all.

"Fine, whatever." Sam swings himself abruptly to his feet, shoves the chair back and then stands there, looking trapped for a second before his lips tighten and he turns sharply, disappears into the bathroom without another word.

Dean stares at the closed door, feeling bruised, numb. A small, traitorous voice inside him reminds him that Sam's never been good at taking orders, or leaving things alone. That sooner or later, they're gonna run out of things to lose.

Not today, though. Today he can pretend that they can go back to the way things were like nothing happened. That Sam will come to accept that he's right about this. That it doesn't change anything, knowing what it's like to have his own brother naked and desperate under his hands, knowing what he sounds like with that soft, ragged plea in his voice when he says Dean's name.

* * *

It works, more or less. They work the case; Indiana is a dead end, and Sam's mood varies between subtly bitchy and uncommunicative, but that's nothing new. Dean figures at least this time, he deserves it. They've made it through worse—though after three days of tense silence and avoiding each other's personal space, three days of skirting around all the things they can't talk about, he's about ready to start climbing the walls. If they don't find something to shoot at soon, he just might.

He gives Sam as much space as he can stand, telling himself it's for the best. They've been living practically inside each other's skin, and that's half the problem. What he really ought to do, he thinks, is go out and find someone blonde, frisky, and five foot two to help him get his head back in the game.

He doesn't. And the last thing he really wants to do is examine his reasons, so in the patented Dean Winchester way, he does a pretty good job of avoiding that, too.

* * *

Dean hits conciousness like he's been thrown from a moving car, abrupt and jarring, the cold panic of free fall sluicing over him. From dead asleep to wide awake in the space of a few heartbeats, Dean sits up, feeling his heart kick with the sudden adrenaline.

"Sam?"

He's half out of the bed with his knife in his hand before he even knows where he is, bare feet swinging to the worn carpet.

In the other bed, Sam shudders, makes a sound that clenches in Dean's stomach, ratcheting up his urgency. Sam's still asleep; whatever's threatening him, it's in the darkness of his own mind. He's pale and tense, face twisted up, and it's hard to tell whether it's fear or pain that's making him curl in on himself, wrenching those soft, desperate protests from him.

Dean abandons the knife and crosses the space between the beds without thought, shakes his brother, then rubs his hands up and down Sam's arms. "Sam. Come on, man, wake the hell up."

Sam sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes fly open and he stills under Dean's hands, holding himself tense and rigid like he's expecting a blow. His hands find Dean's biceps and lock on like he's trying to keep himself from drowning. He takes several more deep, unsteady breaths; at last his eyes clear, and Sam sees Dean, seems to recognize him.

"You okay?" Dean says, feeling the intense pressure of Sam's grip.

"Yeah," Sam says, sounding as ragged as he looks. He swallows, and lets Dean go, self-conscious. "Sorry."

Dean lets his own touch linger. "It's okay." Bracing himself for the worst, he says, "You see something?"

Sam shakes his head, and Dean finally lets go. Sam runs a hand through his sweaty hair, over his eyes. "Just a nightmare."

Despite what he says, Sam's obviously deeply shaken by whatever he saw. Dean feels like he's going to be wearing the imprint of Sam's hands for at least a day, the way he grabbed on like Dean was going to vanish if he let go. He frowns, not liking the look in Sam's eyes. "You sure?"

Sam nods, and lets out a breath, and it's like all the tension of the past few days runs out of him, like the barriers they've been working so hard to keep in place are gone, unnecessary. Dean feels tension relax that he wasn't even aware of, a tightly clenched thing that's been sitting there like a big stone inside him.

It's a relief, but it's also dangerous. Seeming to sense that, Sam pulls back, lets his gaze fall. "I'm okay, Dean."

Dean pats Sam on the knee and climbs back into his own bed, trying not to think about the way Sam held onto him and the need under the surface of his voice, the sleep-warm smell of him, the heat of his body.

Dean sheaths his hunting knife and tucks it away, then punches the pillow into shape. "Gotta lay off the nuclear hot sauce before bed, Sammy. That stuff'll kill you."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Sam says, and it's almost right, almost normal. Dean stretches out and stares up at the crack in the ceiling, trying to get his heart rate down to something that will let him go back to sleep.

"Dean, can I ask you something?"

Dean closes his eyes. He should've known it was too good to be true.

"If I say no, will it do any good?"

When Sam doesn't answer right away, Dean reluctantly looks over; Sam's turned toward him in the other bed, watching him with a mix of intensity and stubborn resolve he knows too well. "All right, Jesus, what?"

"How long you figure Dad knew, before he told you? About me and the other kids?"

The old weight comes back to rest in Dean's stomach. Of all the things Sam has to bring up now, figures he'd zero in on the two subjects Dean tries hardest not to think about these days. But he knows there's no way in hell he's getting out of this, not if he wants to avoid three more days of Sam making his life miserable.

"I don't know, a while. Why's it matter?"

Sam blinks. He finally nods, like he didn't really expect Dean to have an answer. "No reason, I guess."

He falls silent, and Dean thinks maybe the worst is past. Then that look surfaces, that lost and confused and angry look that Dean hates more than anything. Sam looks down.

"It's just, I think about it, you know?"

"Dad's _gone,_ Sam. Doesn't do us a lick of good to try and figure out what went on in his head. We got what we got, and we just gotta deal with it." The last thing either of them needs is to start asking questions like that, worrying at things it's better not to think about.

He gets it, of course. It's a big part of why he kept it from Sam as long as he did—no kid should ever have to live with the knowledge that their own dad was making plans for the day they'd need to die.

Sam doesn't say anything. The look on his face is enough. Dean lets out a sigh, wishing he could take so many things back. "Man, I really didn't want to tell you. Sometimes I think I never should have."

"Dean, it was killing you. I'm not a kid any more. You gotta let me in on this stuff, or we're never gonna make it."

"Don't mean I have to like it."

Sam's expression lightens at that, the barest flash of a smile. Then it's gone, and he doesn't look away, just curls his arm around his pillow and looks at Dean with an intensity that makes Dean feel naked. The silence becomes charged, Sam shifting below the sheet.

"Dean—"

Dean swallows hard and turns away. "Go to sleep, Sam." His voice is rough. He aches, a low, sweet hum of need that he doesn't dare name. _Please, Sam, I'm begging you. Don't push me on this._

And miracle of miracles, for once, Sam lets it go. "Night, then," is all he says, heavy with things unspoken, things that make Dean's heart turn over and his stomach feel like it's got a thousand freaking butterflies inside it, like this isn't over between them. Like there's gonna come a time when Sam won't let him off so easy, and Dean won't be strong enough to keep pushing him away.

Sam sleeps, finally, but Dean stays awake for a long time, breathing fast, listening to the ragged beat of his own heart.

*** end ***

ETA: ...and sometimes, if you are really, really lucky, a writer as amazing as stele3 comes along and writes a story that blows your mind, and heals your spirit, and that happens to fit very well with the story you just wrote. And because fans are wonderful and gracious, she might just decide to call it a sequel to your story, and when that happens, it looks like this:

**[The Epic Love Story of Sam and Dean](http://assignations.org/stele3/The_Epic_Love_Story.html)** by stele3.


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